The Hollow Man
by shywr1ter
Summary: Not with a bang, but with a whimper.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Dark thoughts at the prospect of Tony DiNozzo leaving NCIS at the end of the season. No real beginning or ending; like events of the show, in flux. Just something I had to get off my chest, as I process the news and the past couple seasons.

Warning: Not cheery.

This is the way the world ends.

Not with a bang but a whimper.

 _The Hollow Men_ by T.S. Eliot

"I'm tired."

Tony stood at the large window overlooking the Anacostia, his gaze fixed on some point beyond its shores. It was dusk; snow was falling. Headlights marked the crawl of commuters heading home for the weekend. Gibbs had a sudden memory of another DiNozzo, more than a decade younger, whose natural energy overload seemed to be racheted up even higher once positioned within the ridiculous jack o' lantern walls. There weren't many days when _that_ DiNozzo didn't bound out of the place as soon as he was released from the day, off in his hunt for a girl, or a pick-up game, or a pizza. To be fair, he often bounded into work too, unless one of his adventures kept him out later than he should have been on a school night.

Back then, DiNozzo _was_ energy; he was eager, keen to learn and keen to show what he could do. With time, and experience, and confidence – both his own and that he'd earned from the Boss – he harnessed his energy, tamed it, worked "smarter not harder," but it was still there. His previously scattered, random vigor seemed to transform into a determined and stubborn loyalty, a thicker skin, a more forgiving nature. After all, he'd been screwed over by his dad and by his partner, so he knew that he could do far worse than a boss who didn't do touchy-feely and could be a real bastard sometimes, but could be counted on to watch his back and be up front with him when it counted. Tony was still keen to learn, keen to do what he knew how to do to solve the case. He'd been raised on disappointment and was better able than many to weather his losses – his mother and fiancé when younger; his co-workers and partners on the job. He'd found a home in his career and knew it was what he wanted for the long haul.

Now, he didn't know when that, too, had begun to unravel.

He'd lost Ziva well before she pushed him away in Israel; their teasing and banter had turned sharp and too close to the bone. Michael Rivkin's appearance in LA and DC had been proceeded by her months in Israel – ostensibly back in Mossad to stay, while he was afloat – and her visits back home after she returned to DC included Rivkin, from the photo he'd found. Tony didn't want to think of how much she knew about Michael's assignment, those months before his death and her exile; Tony's trust for her was nearly as stubborn as it had been for Gibbs. Yet even after they brought her home from Somalia, even after he'd tracked her down in Israel, after her coy invitation and then her avoidance, after her apparent guilt-induced, near-breakdown and his begging her to come back with him, he was never sure that she had forgiven him for killing Michael. He was never sure just what he felt for her other than love, but surely there was more, too, given their complicated history; he was never sure that they could live sanely under one roof, although given a chance for it he would have grabbed it with both hands and held on with all his might.

And Gibbs? He'd seen Gibbs become even _more_ Gibbs over the years he was there as his second, and in recent weeks and months, Tony had wondered more than once if having a second to absorb the worst gave Gibbs license to live up to his reputation and be even more of a bastard. The Gibbs of those early years, when it was only the two of them, or back when they had Vivian or Kate on the team, wasn't exactly chatty, but he did more than just grunt and glare; he _taught_. He even laughed or joked on occasion. He found fewer reasons to go off on his own vendettas and for the most part, followed his own rules, like "never be unreachable" or "work as a team." Then came amnesia, and a previously hidden life of pain suddenly revealed, and just as Tony was starting to understand some of what made the Boss who he was, he was gone, seemingly under the impression he could just anoint a successor – and seemingly right. Tony had lost Gibbs then, and the man who came back was not the man he'd followed to NCIS. Stubborn as always, Tony wanted to believe, made himself believe ... but it was never quite the same.

After Gibbs' return from Mexico, there were highs and lows, all in a blur ... more loss for DiNozzo, an exile of his own, more secrets and secret missions, some he was expected to blindly follow – which of course he did. He wasn't proud of all he had done, moment to moment, but he always had a reason and was always counted on by his partners to get their backs, to be there when it counted, even to ease the tension or be a buffer when things were grim. All he asked was an occasional bone and at least a basic loyalty in return; all he asked was that Gibbs follow his own rule: "never screw over your partner"

"What was my crime?" Tony finally turned and looked at the man standing not ten feet away from him and looking as if he was across the table from him in Interrogation, the man he had so respected for so long, for whom he had been so willing – _was still willing_ – to lay down his life if it came to that. "I screwed up. I let myself get distracted, and didn't see the kid. I _know_ that. I'd like to know if that's all this is."

"All _what_ , DiNozzo?"

The tone was cold, distant, like they'd never been partners, never shared a steak or a loss... _he was warmer when I busted him back in Baltimore..._

"C'mon, Gibbs," he felt a sudden spark of anger at the thought. "Even you make yourself clear when you're pissed, if you feel like it. Now you just hang around the edges, glaring. It's almost like you wait until I try to talk to you about it, so you can shoot me another one of your looks – like I shot your dog, or..." His eyes widened for a moment, "or I shot Luke. And what would you have done if I _had_ shot him? Huh? The kid you were going to save? Wouldn't be in this particular dog house, what with letting you get shot – but it would probably a worse one." Tony faltered only a moment as a possible explanation started take shape in his thoughts, but instead of just blurting it out, as he might have in years past, he just tucked it away, a more resigned look in his eyes taking over as the exhaustion suddenly returned. After a moment he went on, "it's hard enough to stand by and hold your coat when we know _why_ you're pissed, or who you're fighting. I can't read your mind, Gibbs, not like before. Maybe because even you don't know why anymore."

"So you quit." At the shrug he got, Gibbs pressed, "Vance didn't accept your resignation."

"Yeah." He snorted softly. "Should sound familiar."

"Rule number five."

Tony's laugh was dry, soft – strangled. Wholly without humor. "Are we still using the low numbers?"

"You got a problem with me, just spit it out, DiNozzo."

"Tried. More than once." Tony glanced at Gibbs as he spoke but neither held nor avoided eye contact; his voice and affect were flat, depleted. Silence loomed around them, but unlike the old DiNozzo, this Tony didn't rush to fill the void, and Gibbs saw that among other lessons DiNozzo had learned was that the silent treatment was one of Gibbs main tools to elicit information, even confessions. Another was how to resist his particular brand of interrogation...

Gibbs' irritation rose, his voice like steel. "Since when do you just quit when things get hard?"

"When _these_ things get _this_ hard." Before Gibbs could say any more, Tony finally turned and looked him in the eye – no deception, no filters – and said evenly, "I've said it before, Gibbs – I owe everything I am in this job to you. I've learned from you. I was a good cop, but I've gotten better, learning from you. I did everything I could do to get your back, because it was something I could do well and it was a way to thank you for what you've taught me. But ... somewhere along the line ... you stopped teaching. I could still get your back, and I could even still learn, just by observing. But whatever's happening now ... I'm afraid I'll learn from that, too. I don't want to ruin the last fifteen years by doing that."

"Then don't quit. Make it right."

"Tried. Can't. Not alone ... and you won't talk about it."

"So, we talk."

DiNozzo looked into the hard, veiled eyes and slowly shook his head. "Tried," he repeated, then wavered, "look... if there comes a time when you can tell me what's going on – why you've shut down, why you wouldn't just talk to me about why you're pissed, what your problem is with me; hell, even why the change of hair and wardrobe – I'll be ready to listen. But I don't get what the hell is so different this time and if you can't tell me ..." He took a breath, steadying himself, and said, "it's always been more than just the cases for me here, and you know that. You've always known that. And I refuse to lose that. Even if it's only memories of NCIS from here on out for me – I don't want to lose that."

Tony finally turned and went to his desk, picking up his overcoat. As he started to walk out of the bullpen, Gibbs stopped him with one more prod. "Thought the only job you ever wanted was being a cop."

Tony stopped, but didn't turn. After a few moments, he sighed. "Yeah. Me too."

"Well?" After a long pause, Gibbs said grudgingly, "if not this team, you know the Director would give you one. He put you on leave hoping you'd take a team."

Another pause from Tony, unmoving, before his shoulders slumped. In a quieter, more defeated voice, he said, "yeah, well, it's nice to be wanted."

Silence fell over the bullpen again, until, irritated and in denial, Gibbs went around to his desk and sat, heavily, pulling another file in front of him to open with a brusque snap. Quietly, his senior field agent started moving again toward the elevator.

* * *

" _It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone."_ John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent


	2. Chapter 2

**This is the way the world ends**

 **Not with a bang but a whimper.**

 ** _The Hollow Men_ by T.S. Eliot**

Up until that moment, the basement was as it always was, his constant, and his refuge: the air moist and carrying the lingering scents of pine, oak, walnut ... warm in the pool of light at his shoulder, at his work; dimming abruptly outside of the small bulb's light and, in the late evening hours, cooling and dark. The only sounds around him had been the soft rasp of the wood under his hands and the occasional soft thunk of glass meeting bench top.

Otherwise, it was silent ... forgiving. Time stood still down here some days; others, it flung itself backward, long into the past. Nights like tonight he could ignore the world upstairs, ignore the ghosts ... ignore the calendar. Ignore another morning that demanded he get up and move forward.

But then his front door banged open with such unaccustomed force and speed that he was reaching for his gun in the bare moments that passed before he heard a wholly uncharacteristic roar. "Gibbs!"

Familiar, but unfamiliar. He thought fleetingly that Taft sounded a little like Fornell when he was pissed off.

The smaller man stomped across his floorboards overhead, making a beeline for the basement door. His doctor had never ventured into his basement before, but that didn't mean he didn't know right where it was – or where to find him. Gibbs waited.

Just like so many others before him, Cyril Taft made his way down the steps, looking around in some apprehension at what he'd find. Like so many others, regaining some self-assurance in seeing Gibbs just sitting there quietly, working away at some wood, the surgeon stormed over to him, and then – hesitated. Gibbs would never know what it was, but there was always something about his working on an unoffensive piece of wood that checked his acquaintances' ire with him. Tamping down the observation and the urge to smirk at it, he spoke without looking up.

"Doc."

"What the hell is going on with you?"

"Told you. Been busy."

"That's not what I mean." Since Gibbs had announced, in response to his orders that he talk to someone, he would talk with _only_ him, Taft not only had agreed but had sought him out, in a compelling mix of responsibility, empathy and curiosity. The men had met as many as a half dozen times for dinner or chess or even, one time, a short sail, but his last few calls to Gibbs had either been rebuffed or unanswered. All along, their meetings had been irregular largely because of Gibbs' erratic schedule. Or so he'd believed before. Now he wasn't so sure. "DiNozzo _quit?_ "

"Yep."

"What the hell?" Taft repeated. _"Why?"_

"What does it matter?"

Taft stared at Gibbs for a long moment, as if he could find at least a clue as to what was going on in his patient's head. Unsuccessful, he tried, "well, from what I hear, there's no way Agent DiNozzo would have left you and your team if he hadn't been forced out, one way or another. And apparently the only thing that's changed about your team to do that has been _you_."

"And DiNozzo's mind. About the team. _Apparently._ "

"Bullshit."

At that, Gibbs' eyes flickered up at the surgeon, whom he'd discovered chattered almost much as DiNozzo did, but to date had not so much as offered a mild oath between them. The next moment, though, disinterested again, Gibbs' eyes dropped back to his work.

"It's true, isn't it? You reportedly have described him as the best agent you've ever worked with; you handed him your team when you took off to Mexico. He's saved your life and you've saved his. He's turned down his own team more than once to stay on yours. He's been as good as he's ever been and ran your team this year while you recovered. But you get back and freeze him out of your life, of your team. So what the hell is going on with you?" Taft demanded again.

"You been spying on me, Doc?" Gibbs sidestepped coolly, his eyes and hands still focused on his project.

"Damn straight I have. You're so tied up in knots that you have physical symptoms – including a rather dramatic collapse in your office – but you won't see anyone professional? Worse yet, you announce that you _will_ see me – on _your_ terms." Taft's eyes sparked in anger. "No pressure there, Gibbs. You're damn right I looked to get as much information as I could about you, so maybe I could make some headway into that damn, rock hard head of yours before you self-destructed. It didn't occur to me that you'd aim at someone else and not yourself."

Despite himself, Gibbs looked up to glare at his surgeon, nettled by the extent of the man's unanticipated intrusion into his privacy. "So you talked to DiNozzo," he ground out.

"No. I don't know that anyone knows where to find him, even if I'd wanted to."

"Rule 3," Gibbs snorted under his breath, without thinking about it, as the obvious source of the doc's intel suddenly struck him. _Ducky..._

"I wondered when you'd start trying the Rules on me."

"Yeah, well Rule 3 is 'Never be unreachable.'"

"Even _after_ being run off by you?" Taft baited. "DiNozzo's ready to quit because he's lost all faith in you and the job he loves and his trust that you respect him, because you won't – or _can't_ – tell him what the hell's going on with you – and you _still_ think he's still going to toe the line for you with your damn rules? Just how long did you think he could take ..." the doctor broke off, clearly answering his own question before finishing it. "Well, damn," he breathed, and, stunned, sat back against a nearby sawhorse. "That's not the question here, is it? The _real_ question is whether you thought he didn't even _have_ a breaking point – or that you _knew_ he did." The enormity of each rolled over Taft in waves, until, anger suddenly drained and replaced by understanding, he ran a hand over his face, silent for several moments before finally admitting, "and honestly, Jethro ... I don't know which is worse."

Moments passed, the basement silent again. Ever stoic, giving nothing away, Gibbs stood to cross the room and pick up a jar of nails, dumping them on the worktop and blowing out the dust. Grabbing his bottle, he came back to pour another finger in his own glass first. But as he went to pour some in the empty jar, Taft spoke up.

"No – "

An odd sound in the man's voice caused Gibbs to look at him to find an expression of – what, dismay? – on his doctor's face. Gibbs looked at him blandly, waiting for the explanation that he knew would come.

"... I really don't want to have a drink with you right now."

The stoic expression didn't crack, but those who knew Gibbs better than Taft did would have quickly spotted one of his few tells – a slight twitch of a clenched jaw. He set the jar down with only a bit more force than necessary and sat back at his work, grabbing his own drink and knocking it back.

"DiNozzo's not my patient, but you are," Taft was back on his feet, again circling close. "And no matter what you may have convinced yourself, this isn't about him – it's about _you_. I'm not sure how much of this is your anger at his being younger than you are, or your anger that he's been loyal enough to stay on your team when he could have moved on and up long ago, or even just your anger at your own mortality." Watching Gibbs as he again lifted the wooden panel he had been working on, to all outward appearances as unmoved by the rant as if alone, Taft demanded, "What happened to your wanting to give him the team, when it was time?"

"Doesn't matter now. He wants out."

"It might matter to the team," Taft baited him again. "Do they even know? 'Cos I don't think Ducky does." He watched the agent closely and thought he might have hit a nerve, so pressed, "your team may not have the nerve to ask you what the hell's going on, Gibbs – or might not have even figured out that your senior field agent is out the door – but _I_ do, and I'd like to know. The young cop you personally brought in, went out on a limb to get him at NCIS, mentored him – your _legacy_ , as much as you can have one ..." Taft's mouth went dry at the reminder of their shared pain, but went on, "and he did nothing to deserve this, am I right? _Nothing_. Or ..." Taft's eyed narrowed. "Is that it? Your getting shot was _his_ fault?"

"DiNozzo didn't pull the trigger," Gibbs grumbled.

"You can't say it, that it isn't his fault. Or _won't_ , no matter what you really think." Taft said softly, in some surprise. "You _do_ blame him..."

"No." Gibbs shook his head stubbornly.

"But you want him to suffer for it anyway?" Cyril asked, incredulous. At Gibbs' grunt of denial, he went on, "then what the hell are you playing at, Gibbs? If you're just pissed that all the years of injuries are finally catching up with you but not with DiNozzo yet, admit it to yourself, or figure out what else all this is. Or if you really have just been trying to push him out of the nest, so he can advance and take his rightful place as a team leader – you'd better rethink that little bit of genius, because it stinks."

When Gibbs just sat, silent, staring at the now-empty glass before him, Taft sighed, the energy from his anger now dissipating in his concern about just how deep Gibbs' psychological scars ran.

"No matter what's going on with you or why, Gibbs, you've run out of time. Things have taken a sudden turn with DiNozzo leaving, maybe for good. He admires the hell out of you. At this point, I don't have a clue how he still can; he's probably as fucked up as you are. But right now, he's feeling like you have no respect or use for him. No matter what else is in the way for you, you know that's not true. Tell him."

As Taft started to leave, Gibbs snorted softly. "Well, that it, Doc?" He had not meant to make it sound so derisive, but whether it was events, or the bourbon, or his mood, it came out sounding more dismissive than he intended.

"I don't know. I can't keep talking with you if I can't figure out what all this is," the doctor said quietly, "but I think it's more about you than him. For all your warts, Gibbs, deep down you're an honest guy, and when the scales fall from your eyes you're going to hate yourself for what you've done to this agent you mentored if you don't find a way around this. Why don't you give the kid a break just for once, and talk to him. Even if it's too late to fix him with the job, at least don't make it worse for him."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the house back to silence, Gibbs still sat, stubborn and unyielding and playing the doc's words round and round in his head, drowning out the ghosts who usually came to visit him in his lair.

And even more ... Rule 3. No matter what, Tony was always reachable. Always ... unless he _couldn't_ respond. Memories of those lost connections overwhelmed him: when Tony was with Jeffrey White; when he drugged and held captive in the sewers; when his car blew up and his phones with it ...

Unless drugged or kidnapped or dying of the plague, Tony DiNozzo had always been reachable, even when pissed, even when drunk, even when screwing the girl of the week. _Always._ DiNozzo was always dependable, always reliable.

Always had his six.

Gibbs didn't realize he had his cell in his hand until he hit the phone icon on his home screen and his thumb actually hesitated over the speed dial preset "1," before finally hitting send. This time, there was no ring, just an operator's pre-recorded voice.

"The wireless customer you are calling is not available at this time. This is recording 29B."

* * *

 **" _It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone."_ **_**John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent** _


End file.
